


the thrill of first love

by onetrueobligation



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Character Study, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Probably ooc, i know this isnt really how their relationship would work but i just want them to be happy okay, i wrote this late at night after a hard day okay, this didnt go the way i wanted it to at all but im proud of it anyway, title taken from falsettos which i accidentally became obsessed with over the weekend whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 17:41:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12940386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetrueobligation/pseuds/onetrueobligation
Summary: Anatole Kuragin finally means something to someone.





	the thrill of first love

**Author's Note:**

> me: i hate anatole kuragin
> 
> also me: writes this entire work

Anatole Kuragin knows he means nothing to anyone.

 

 

The sole exception is his sister, whom he knows would die for him as he would for her. But, to every other human being on the planet, he is nothing more than some flamboyant, meretricious, _cheap_ good-for-nothing.

 

 

This has never bothered Anatole Kuragin. Anatole Kuragin has never thought about being seen as a person.

 

 

Because for a very, very long time, he believed he enjoys being seen how he is seen – being _used._

 

 

But it does occur to him at some point that he is, in fact, a person.

 

 

And once he becomes aware of that fact, he is left to realise that he has been deceived. Someone, somewhere, had made him believe he _wasn’t_ a person. And suddenly he realises there is something he wants. He wants to be loved and treasured and needed and valued and _adored._ He wants to leave an imprint, a vivid memory, on someone’s heart. He wants to be held dear, he wants to be showered in affection, and no, he realises, not the faux tenderness that countless lovers have engulfed him in, but genuine devotion.

_Love._

Anatole Kuragin does not know many things. However, he does, strangely enough, understand the difference between love and lust. Lust is to be coveted. Lust is the many men and women, princes and princesses he’d known desiring the unfaltering façade he flaunts day after day. Lust is the hot press of lips to his ear, empty words of endearment, words that would be forgotten in a day. Lust is all Anatole Kuragin has known for a long time.

 

Love is something Anatole Kuragin does not understand and cannot begin to explain.

 

 

Love, Anatole Kuragin realises one day, has a name.

 

 

Love is sharp, observant, cerulean eyes. Love is slightly calloused and strangely comforting hands, love is rough lips, forever curled into an amused and carefree smirk, love is –

 

 

 _No._ Anatole Kuragin realises love is none of those things. Anatole Kuragin is surprised in himself as he realises love stems from deeper than the body, deeper than any physical attribute. Anatole Kuragin realises love is _home._

And _home_ is Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov.

 

 

And at first this sentiment, this concept of _home,_ this concept of _love,_ is frightening for Anatole Kuragin. Lust is what he knows. Lust is his trade. Lust is not what he wants, but it’s what he’s accustomed to. _Love_ is different and Anatole Kuragin does not enjoy different. He likes to be certain. He likes to know what he’s doing. _Love_ is unfamiliar waters, but, he realises, perhaps it’s high time he pushes himself away from the unhealthy chrysalis he’s gotten himself caught in, this endless cycle of days that pass in hazy soirees and nights that blend together in what has become a habit for him.

 

 

Perhaps it’s high time for Anatole Kuragin to find out what home feels like.

 

 

Perhaps Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov will turn out like all the others. Perhaps he is no different, and Anatole Kuragin is just submerged under another’s spell. But when he feels Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov’s presence, his heartbeat slows rather than racing in his chest. Rather than his senses becoming heightened, his breathing quickening, everything seems calmer, safer, and perhaps that is the moment Anatole Kuragin stops fearing love.  

 

 

Or perhaps it is when Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov’s lips are against his own, when his hands are pressing against his skin, when Anatole Kuragin decides to test the limits of this _love,_ when he gasps out five words, a quiet, experimental plea –

 

_‘Please,_ ’ he breathes, ‘ _could you be tender?_ ’

 

 

And perhaps it is how Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov responds that finally cripples him, that finally coerces him to succumb to this new, unfamiliar sensation, this _love._

He _listens._

And Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov never stops listening. He listens to everything Anatole Kuragin. And even after Anatole Kuragin has given him everything he can, Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov stays. And he continues to listen. And he becomes so frequent and prominent in Anatole Kuragin’s life that his face, his movements, his very soul seem to become synonymous with _home._ Synonymous with _love._

Anatole Kuragin finally knows how it feels to be treasured and adored.

 

 

Anatole Kuragin finally means something to someone.


End file.
